


There Are Worse Things than Frozen Peppermint Tea

by parsnips (trifles)



Series: Tumblr Treasures [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: Biting, Competition, F/F, First Time With A Girl, Hate Sex, meme fill, someone finds out they're bisexual but that's not really the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trifles/pseuds/parsnips
Summary: From a fake-fic meme:

  teiledesganzen asked: I'll play! I loved your Rachel/Cassandra fic "There are Worse Things than Frozen Peppermint Tea" because Rachel's conflict over being intensely attracted to someone who *never* tells her she's a star was very convincing. Also, Cassandra's internal monologues were hilarious and the scene in the office supply store was heartwrenching. Now tell me all about it! :D

Oh, man, that story. It all built out of me really wanting to just write a hate-sex PWP, but then I got caught up in trying to ~justify the scene. Like, why was Rachel in Cassandra’s apartment? What happened to make Cassandra that angry? And I kept adding more and more stuff before the actual sex that it turned into a different story entirely, and eventually I had to cut the sex scene because it didn’t actually make sense any more. But! Provided you don’t mind it making no sense at all, and it being totally un-beta’d and very first draftish, here’s the original scene (you might notice that I lifted some of the dialogue and description for the Staples confrontation. WHOOPS.)





	

Cassandra July’s apartment looked like a New York dream. Every fantasy Rachel had ever had when she was a little girl, every time she imagined what her life would be like, she’d seen herself in a Manhattan apartment, stretching out on an enormous bed, staring out over the nighttime skyline. Sometimes she would be surrounded by her awards, and, well, in the last few years she imagined Finn’s arms coming around her from behind, pulling her flush against his chest while he murmured in her ear everything she’d always believed about herself.

_You’re a star, Rachel Berry._

She’d never thought of the smell, though. The sweet and twining scent of tequila. The underlay of cigarettes smoked sometime in the last week. The incredibly soft smell of roses, muted but everywhere, like Cassandra only had to touch something and it left the taste of roses behind.

Which made no sense. Cassandra wasn’t soft at all. Not a flower; a thorn. And thorns didn’t smell like anything unless they smelled like blood.

“I told you to get out.”

Rachel closed her eyes, opened them again. She turned around; Cassandra was lazing up against the doorway, her eyelids drooped over a dark gaze. Rachel swallowed, lifted her chin. “I know what you said.”

“Don’t like to listen, do you?” Cassandra said. She pulled away from the door, stepping with a dancer’s grace and a cat’s hunting prowl toward Rachel. “You never listen, Schwimmer. Because if you really _listened,_ you’d have to hear what people are actually _saying._ ”

She really did smell like roses. It was the only thing that Rachel could think, the only thought she could actually process. Cassandra came closer, her half-open eyes unblinking. Rachel couldn’t move. Couldn’t step out of that sight, break the connection. She couldn’t _lose._

So she stepped closer instead.

"And what should I be hearing?” she said, voice almost a whisper. “How I’ll never succeed? I’ll never be good enough?” They were standing with only inches between them. God, they were sharing _air._ “Why should I listen to a has-been like you?”

And Cassandra’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and the hurt that flashed across was something Rachel hadn’t thought she’d ever see. Then the expression was gone, and there was only anger left, tightly coiled, honed to a point. Cassandra’s hand shot up, fast and rough, fingers digging against the back of Rachel’s skull, thumb pressing, pushing on the skin of Rachel’s cheekbone. It was a grip that was meant to punish, even if it didn’t quite feel that way.

Cassandra dragged Rachel closer, a hard movement that left Rachel stumbling against Cassandra, chest to chest, Rachel’s hands reaching out to catch Cassandra’s arms. “Yeah,” Cassandra breathed, her rage twisting the sound into something that made Rachel’s skin hum, “that’s exactly what you should be hearing.” Her breath ghosted against Rachel’s mouth (Cassandra’s hand was hot against her skin), her eyes were half-lidded again (oh god, Rachel’s nipples were getting hard). “Let me tell you something, Schwimmer,” Cassandra said, roses enveloping them both, “because apparently it’s something that you need to hear over and over to get it through your thick, pretty little head. You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough. You know what you’ll be?”

Cassandra’s leaned closer, and Rachel could feel Cassandra’s breasts tight against her own, nothing touching quite enough. Rachel’s hands were still on Cassandra, and god, her skin was so _soft,_ dry and warm and different and there were things Rachel would do if this was Finn, if this was Brody, but it wasn’t, it was Cassandra, nothing made any sense—

Cassandra mouth brushed against Rachel’s ear, and her hair tumbled over Rachel’s face. Roses. “No guesses?” she whispered. “Come on. Always mouthing back. Got a song for me now?”

Rachel shivered.

“No?” And then, gently, Rachel felt the nip of teeth against the lobe of her ear. Pressure, pull, a loop of thoughts: this was her teacher, this was a woman, this was Cassandra-fucking-July — and then Cassandra raised her other hand and traced a winding path up Rachel’s side.

Rachel shivered again, and couldn’t help the noise she made when Cassandra slid her palm over Rachel’s breast, dragging her fingers across Rachel’s nipple. Cassandra nipped her ear again, and then ducked lower, using the hand in Rachel’s hair to tip Rachel’s head sideways, back, baring Rachel’s neck to a second bite.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Cassandra hated her, she shouldn’t be making anything feel good, and Rachel hated Cassandra right back, had a set of daily affirmations specifically geared toward beating every terrible word Cassandra had said to her, but her hands kneaded Cassandra’s arms, she was gasping with every finger stroke, and she— god, she just wanted _more._

And Cassandra was many things, but she was always in tune with her students. Rachel heard a breathy laugh. Cassandra’s thumb traced down Rachel’s cheek; her other hand traced down Rachel’s stomach, fingernails catching on fabric until her hand finally slid forward, cupping Rachel, the tips of her fingers pressing up against the seam of her leggings.

Rachel was wet, the fabric of her underwear a wreck of sensation that Cassandra was, very lightly, beating a rhythm against. It made Rachel want to jerk away from the sensation; it made her want to grab Cassandra’s hand and _press_ , pressure and heat right where she needed it. She bit her lip instead, and whimpered.

“You like this, huh?” Cassandra said, and then ran the back of her thumbnail against Rachel, pushing the seam just a little higher, a little rougher over Rachel’s clit. “You like hearing someone tell you the truth for once?”

“No,” Rachel gritted out. Her hands sunk to Cassandra’s waist without her conscious thought, but once there Rachel found herself tugging Cassandra closer. As if with enough effort, they could occupy the same space, and Cassandra would finally be touching all of Rachel, every inch, every aching nerve finally serviced.

And maybe there was something there for Cassandra, too; her breathing was shallow now, and her fingers were tapping, tapping, a quick and sudden pressure and then tapping, tapping again.

The bed was right there. Right there. Rachel knew the bed was right behind her, and she wanted to twist Cassandra down onto it, hold her down and tap tap tap right back, until Cassandra begged for something to take her over the edge. And then Rachel’s thoughts got confused, because maybe she wanted to kiss Cassandra, too, and that wasn’t something that you did with people you hate, that wasn’t something you wanted to do.

You didn’t do _this,_ either, but Rachel really wasn’t sure what _this_ was anymore.

Except that she wanted more.

They weren’t kissing, but— they could bite. Rachel bent her head and scraped her teeth against Cassandra’s neck. Tequila, roses. Smoke like a bitter tang against her tongue. And Cassandra’s gasp, which tasted best of all.

She needed more. She wanted more. She was always good at envisioning her desires and making them happen. She twisted Cassandra around and shoved. The brief loss of contact against her cunt was like cold water, but it wouldn’t be for long. Cassandra had landed on the bed, sitting on the edge, and the hazy look in her eyes started sharpening to cut — until Rachel pushed into the space between Cassandra’s knees, pressed Cassandra’s shoulders back until she had to either fall or lie back of her own volition.

She laid back, wary and somehow laughing at Rachel at the same time. Which was fine. Because this was a contest between them, like everything else, and Rachel Berry was a winner and a _star._

Rachel climbed up onto the bed, gripping Cassandra’s wrists and pushing them down against the bedspread. She balanced over her, one knee on the bed — and the other, after a moment’s hesitation, pressed between Cassandra’s legs.

Cassandra made a sound and tried to move against Rachel’s knee, give herself the satisfaction she’d been denying Rachel. Two could play at that. Rachel lowered herself onto Cassandra’s leg, changing the angle of her knee so it wasn’t quite as fulfilling for Cassandra, and then— god, Cassandra’s thigh was muscle and heat, and Rachel ground herself down against it.

“Shit,” Cassandra whispered, and then her thigh was rocking up into Rachel, adding another layer of sensation. Rachel gasped, and let go of Cassandra’s wrists — and she started to touch.

She had always been a touchy-feely person. Touch-starved, maybe, she could maybe see that too. She wanted to feel everything, capture every movement, catalogue it away until she needed it again.

So here, here was the feel of the skin under Cassandra’s shirt. Here was the ridged points of Cassandra’s nipples, the firm curve of her breasts. Here was Rachel giving up her fantastic angle so she could slide her hand under the waistband of Cassandra’s leggings, feel the brush of wiry hair against her palm, feel the familiar/different wetness give way to folds and depths and places that made Cassandra bite her own lip to stifle whatever sound she’d wanted to make.

And maybe Cassandra thought she was losing — herself or the contest, whichever, it didn’t matter, _god_ — because she reached up and put her hand under Rachel’s shirt, reached down and under Rachel’s waistband until Rachel choked on the feel of Cassandra’s nails ticking against her clit.

Rachel’s hands faltered, and all she could do was hold on, trying to remember to press and move as much as Cassandra was — except there wasn’t any way to move that fast, that thorough, that everywhere and nowhere and inside and _fuck_ —

She thought maybe she screamed.

And after, she collapsed on Cassandra, shaking with aftershocks. Slowly Cassandra pulled her hands away from Rachel, stretching them out to either side like she was readying herself for the cross. At first Rachel didn’t understand, didn’t have the thoughts to marshal together. So it was understandable that it took her a minute to really process Cassandra’s voice, quiet in the air and echoing against Rachel’s chest, saying, “You’ll be me. That’s who you’ll be. Get it through your head. And get the fuck out of my apartment.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://triflesandparsnips.tumblr.com/post/40237352258/ill-play-i-loved-your-rachelcassandra-fic).


End file.
